Out of the Shadows Page 22

  “We’re not friends,” she said.

  “We can be.” To her dismay, he followed her, stepping inside. “I’d like to be.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “Maybe because it’d be nice to have someone who knew what it was like to have to hide marks that are hard to explain.”

  She’d been edging backward, but now she stopped, fixing him with a look. He didn’t flinch from her probing gaze. A beat passed.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.

  “Oh, don’t you?” He reached forward and brushed her cheek with his fingers. She sucked in a breath at the gentle touch. “I think you’re lying.”

  “What’s it to you?” she asked. She was suddenly angry. She hadn’t wanted to be this—someone to be pitied—and he was making her feel like a victim.

  He didn’t answer. Instead, he turned his back to her. Confused, she watched him, then realized he was pulling his shirt up, exposing his back . . .

  Which was covered in red welts and bruises.

  “He likes the belt mainly,” Mark said after a charged moment of silence.

  Elizabeth swallowed, saying nothing as Mark dropped his shirt and turned back to face her.

  “So you wanna talk about it?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “Me, neither.”

  They stared at each other for a moment and for the first time ever, Elizabeth felt a kinship with another living soul.

  “Let’s go back out to the creek,” he said. “Bring your book along. You can read to me.”

  She didn’t think to disobey, just got her book and slipped on her shoes before following him out the door. His hand found hers, slotting their fingers together like it was nothing out of the ordinary. Since he didn’t seem to think it was, she struggled for the same nonchalance.

  And so the days of summer break passed, meeting Mark at their spot by the creek whenever she could get away. Some nights she waited for hours and he wouldn’t appear. Those were the nights when she knew the next day he’d be moving stiffly and he wouldn’t lie down in the grass.

  They talked about everything and nothing. Sometimes they sat in silence. Sometimes she read to him. Occasionally she’d bring a few biscuits she’d made, or a piece of cake. He had a sweet tooth and liked that a lot.

  It wasn’t until the next time Elizabeth had incurred the ire of her sole-remaining parent and showed up late with a split lip and bruises on her arms that Mark kissed her.

  Tentative at first, as though he wasn’t sure what she’d do, then more confident when she didn’t pull away. His hands gently cupped her jaw and the world faded away around them as they kissed. It was as though they’d found solace together, a bit of healing and comfort, and it was the best thing she’d ever had in her young life.

  Two months later, she realized she was pregnant.

  She wasn’t completely ignorant of how these things happened, and as she stood there, counting again the days of the calendar, she knew she should be terrified. And she was. But she was also the tiniest bit elated.

  Elizabeth told Mark that night as the summer moon shone down on them, lying on the soft grass. His hand was drifting across her stomach and it froze.

  “Pregnant?” he asked. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m two weeks late,” she said.

  “You’re underage,” he said. “We can’t get married.”

  Her heart sank a little. She hadn’t known what she’d expected him to do, but the idea of having a baby by herself, of telling her da . . . A shudder went through her at the thought.

  “But we can run away,” Mark continued. “Just you and me. Bide our time until you’re sixteen. When will that be?”

  “Three months.”

  “Then we only have to hide until then. We can do that. Then we’ll marry and there’s nothing anyone can do about it.”

  Marriage and a baby to a man she’d fallen in love with . . . it seemed too good to be true. And she should’ve known it would be because just then her da stepped out from behind a tree.

  “So this is where you been coming every night,” he said, advancing on them.

  Elizabeth gasped in dismay, grabbing up her clothes as Mark jumped to his feet. He had no time to say anything before her father’s fist shot out, knocking him in the jaw with a powerful crack of knuckles against bone. Mark dropped to the ground like a rock and didn’t move.

  “Mark!” In moments, she was crouched next to him, trying to shake him awake. He was still breathing, thank goodness, just out cold.

  “Pregnant, eh? Spreading your legs for the first boy who pays you a bit of attention?” Her da grabbed her arm and dragged her to her feet and up the hill.

  “Let me go!” She fought him, but a fist upside her head that made her see stars put an end to that.

  She was forced to dress while her da packed her things, then he drove her out of town. For the next nine months, she was mostly a prisoner at a convent, growing and birthing her baby boy far away from the prying eyes of neighbors and friends. She railed and screamed when they took the boy from her, not even letting her hold him. Tears poured down her cheeks as she cursed them every vile way she knew how, until the Head Mother of the convent gave her cheek a stinging slap.

  The hope that had kept her going—hope that she’d see Mark again—was dashed the moment she was returned to her home. He’d been sent away, into the military, never to return.

  “Sucha sad tale, but ye ken, that’s how things were in those days,” Elva said, adding more tea to her cup. “Girls her age did’nae hae babies oot o’ wedlock. The baby was ge’en up fur adoption.”

  “Do you know what happened to her?” Alexa asked.

  I was stunned, still in emotional turmoil over the story I’d just heard.

  “I’m afraid I dinna.” Elva said. “One day, they were just gone. Both her and her faether. They did’na leave a note nor tell anybidy whaur they wir ga’an. They’ve nivver returned. If she’s still alive, she’d be, oh I dinna, most likely in her sixties by now? I do wish I ken whit happened ta her.”

  “Do you know what happened to Mark?” I asked. I didn’t dare turn to look at Devon to see how he was handling all this.

  “Mark? Och, aye. The Clay family moved awa’ soon after the Percys left. No one’s seen them since.”

  “Then who buried Dillon McGewan there?” It was the first time Devon had spoken.

  “Naebiddy really kens,” Elva said. “It jist appeared one day, the grave freshly dug. Seemed best no’ tae disturb the deed, so naebiddy did.”

  What had happened? It couldn’t have been coincidence that Devon had the same last name as the boy Vega had fallen in love with, could it?

  Abruptly, Devon stood and I hastened to follow suit.

  “Thank you for your time,” he said to Elva. His words were cordial but I could feel the tension in his body. “We’ll just be off now.”

  Beau and Alexa said their goodbyes as well and followed us out, but I was mostly concentrating on Devon. I wasn’t sure what to make of everything Elva had said to us and couldn’t imagine what must be going through Devon’s head at the moment either.

  “Let’s take a walk,” he said to me, his hand taking mine.

  I glanced back at Alexa as we started walking and she gave a nod of understanding, grabbing Beau’s arm and tugging him back when he began to follow us.

  We walked without speaking, and I thought maybe Devon was following the sound and scent of the ocean, as our path was a gradual descent. Finally, we crested the last hill and looked down onto water, gently lapping at the sandy pebbles that made up the beach.

  “I’ve always loved the water,” he said. “Especially here. Deserted and cold . . . the water is more indifferent here than elsewhere, I think. It continues on its way, no matter what tries to impede its path. It demands respect for its beauty and power. Can you feel it?”

  I was too worried about him to answer. I tightened my hand around his, and he glanced down
at me.

  “Can you?” he repeated. “You can almost feel it in your blood, getting stronger and colder with each wave that comes in.”

  “What’s wrong, Devon?” I asked. “Please talk to me.”

  He sighed, turning again to look out at the water. I waited, watching him and just being there.

  “You haven’t sorted it yet?” he asked.

  “Sorted what?”

  “Dillon Clay. My father. He was her son. She named him after his father, Mark Clay. Which makes me Vega’s grandson.”

  Once upon a time, my stepbrother had been a monster. A monster who had hidden behind family ties and assumptions of trust and loyalty. He’d done horrible things to me and the one small comfort I’d had was that we didn’t share the same blood. That which made him into what he was didn’t run in my veins, too.

  Devon had no such comfort.

  I didn’t know what to say, what words of advice or understanding to offer. Once the shock had worn off, so much became clear. Vega’s constant protection of Devon. Her obsession with him. The murder of Kira, the one other woman who’d gotten too close. Her threats to me, and finally, her inability to shoot Devon point-blank in the hotel room when we’d been cornered.

  So I just held on to him, and I wasn’t sure really who was holding on to whom at that point. I felt for him, tears stinging my eyes, and rested my head against his arm as we stared out into the ocean, which didn’t know or care what turmoil was wreaking havoc on our lives at the moment.

  “Are you all right?” I asked after a while. My voice was nearly lost in the sound of the surf against the shore.

  He nodded immediately. “Oh yes. I’m fine.”

  I cringed inside at that. Yes, I’d been “fine” for years upon years . . . then Devon had walked into my life and shown me just how not fine I was.

  “Is that how you’re going to play this?” I asked.

  I could feel him look down at me, but I kept watching the waves.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re shutting me out. Keeping it all inside. And if that’s what you want to do, that’s your decision.” I looked up at him. “But you don’t have to. I don’t want you to.”

  “My . . . grandmother . . . tortured and murdered my wife,” he said with obvious difficulty. “Has tried to kill you. Has lied to me for years about who I really am. I don’t think I’ve even been able to process how that is affecting me. I’m stunned. I feel betrayed . . . used. And I have no idea why she did it.”

  Okay, he was talking. This was good. “Alexa said your parents were murdered,” I said. “We need to figure out what she meant by that. Then maybe you’ll know more about why Vega . . . Elizabeth . . . did what she did.” Other than her being a complete sociopath, I wanted to add, but knew that wouldn’t be exactly helpful.

  “They were random victims. Not murdered. I can’t imagine Vega would kill her own son. Surely to God . . .” He didn’t continue, and I understood.

  “Let’s go ask her. We’ll hear what she has to say . . . together. You and me.”

  I tugged his arm and he looked down at me. His face was hard to read but his eyes . . . his eyes held naked pain. I wrapped my arms around his neck, and was surprised to feel his arms go tight around my waist. His weight pressed on me and his face was buried in my neck. I held on to him as his shoulders shook and my skin grew damp. He held me so tightly, it was hard to breathe, but it felt good to be able to be strong for someone else. And I was grateful beyond words that Devon allowed himself to be vulnerable with me.

  After a few minutes, his grip on me eased and he stepped back. Other than his eyes being slightly red and a tiny bit swollen, you couldn’t tell at all that he’d been upset.

  Without a word, he took my hand and began retracing our steps up the hills to where we’d left Beau and Alexa. Though they weren’t at the car, there was a pub nearby and Devon guided us toward it. Once we’d entered, I saw Beau and Alexa seated opposite each other at a corner table. Their heads were close together and they were talking. When Devon and I approached, they immediately clammed up, looking like two teenagers who’d been caught by their parents.

  Devon held the chair for me and I sat down. He sat across from me, next to Beau. They already had drinks, and the waitress was on us in seconds, asking what we wanted. Devon ordered a bottle of wine . . . and two shots of vodka, straight up. I didn’t complain and those shots went down pretty darn smooth.

  “What happened to my grandfather?”

  Devon’s first shot across the bow took me by surprise, but Alexa seemed prepared.

  “Mark Clay served his time in the Royal Marine Commandos and did very well. Unfortunately, he was reported Killed In Action a few years into his service. He never married.”

  I felt a wave of disappointment. It would’ve been really great for Devon to try and track him down and meet him.

  “So you’re saying that Mark and Elizabeth—Vega—had a son together, Dillon Clay McGewan, my father.”

  Alexa nodded. “I figured you’d work it out on your own.”

  “Then why did you say my parents were murdered?”

  Alexa glanced at Beau, who gave her a nod.

  “That bombing . . . Devon, it wasn’t a coincidence that your family was there.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  I could tell he was agitated and I rested my hand on his knee underneath the table. His palm settled over mine and his body relaxed slightly.

  “We think it was a targeted assassination . . . on your father,” Beau said. “Disguised as a mass bombing.”

  Devon’s hand was like ice.

  I was horrified. “How many people lost their lives . . . just to kill one man?”

  “Twenty-three,” Devon said, his voice flat. “So someone knew who my father was. It was a revenge killing.”

  “Most likely.”

  There was a moment of heavy silence. “Did my father know who his parents were?” Devon asked. “Did he even have a clue as to the who and why?”

  “I don’t know, man,” Beau said with a sigh and helpless shrug. “There’s just no way we can know. The only ones who do are Mark and Vega, and Mark’s dead.”

  The fact that Vega would know loomed large, though no one spoke the words.

  “I want to go further north,” Devon said. “There’s a place I’d like to visit.”

  No one argued with that pronouncement, and though I wondered where he was talking about, I decided to hold my tongue until we were alone.

  Suddenly, I felt Devon’s eyes on me. Glancing up, I was taken aback by the look of horror on his face. I was about to ask him what was wrong when I felt it.

  The warm trickle of blood from my nose.

  My hand flew up to my face just as a dull ache started inside my head. Both Beau and Alexa were staring at me—Alexa in confusion and Beau with a look of sad resignation.

  “I thought you said she was better,” he said to Devon.

  “I am. I was,” I cut in, grabbing a napkin to staunch the flow. “I don’t know what this is—”

  “She lied.”

  We all looked at Devon. His face was a mask of cold fury.

  “She lied to the agent, who then lied to us. It wasn’t a cure, merely another delaying tactic. Something to allay the symptoms for a short while.”

  I felt sick to my stomach, and it had absolutely nothing to do with the pain in my head.

  “We leave in the morning, at first light.”

  No one questioned Devon, and I said nothing as he took my hand and led me from the pub.

  Beau had checked us in to a little hotel next door that looked like it had been around since the days of William the Conqueror. But the inside was nice and clean, and I knew that I was concentrating on anything else other than what had happened.

  Devon was going to be a widower again, nearly as quickly as he’d been the last time.

  I’d never forget the look on his face at the table, and my heart ached.

&n
bsp; I showered, wrapping one towel around me and drying my hair with another. I caught sight of Devon in the mirror. He was leaning, one arm against the doorjamb, watching me.

  “Don’t,” I warned.

  “Don’t what?”

  “Weren’t you the one who said not to give up?”

  He didn’t reply, but he didn’t have to. I could see I wasn’t getting through to him. His eyes had always been the most expressive part of him and now the blue depths held an anguish I could feel. I set aside the towel in my hands and turned toward him.

  “It’ll be okay,” I said. “No matter what happens. You’ll be okay.” My smile was a little too sad, but it was the best I could do. I had to be strong . . . for both of us. Devon had been through so much today.

  Reaching up, I cupped his cheek in my hand. His hand circled my wrist and he turned his lips into my palm.

  “I don’t want to live without you.”

  My eyes went wide at that. “What do you mean?” I asked carefully, almost afraid of his response.

  “You’re my world,” he said, his blue gaze meeting mine. “And I’m tired. Tired of fighting the good fight, which may not have been the good fight after all. I thought perhaps I’d done enough, seen enough horror and blood to redeem myself and gain a quiet life. It seems fate won’t be kind, or forgiving.”

  I stared at him, aghast. “Please don’t say that,” I begged. “You’re a good man. I can’t bear to think of you feeling so fatalistic.”

  He was quiet, studying me. I prayed he’d see that what he was thinking just wasn’t going to happen. I couldn’t think that if I died—as it seemed certain now—he wouldn’t go on.

  “Let’s just go to bed,” I said. “We’re tired and everything looks worse when you’re tired.”

  Devon brushed his lips to my forehead. “You go ahead, darling. I think I’m going out for a bit.”

  I watched in dismay as he grabbed his jacket and walked out the door, letting it swing shut behind him.

  Well, shit. Now what?

  I shrugged into one of Devon’s shirts and my underwear, doing up the buttons to between my breasts. Though the sleeves were too long and the garment overly large, it made me feel closer to him.